Part of the Band
by PitFTW
Summary: Arthur Kirkland, Drum Major, didn't know what to expect for Band Camp. Between all the idiotic antics, that stupid perverted Frog, and random romances, there's no way he'd survive this year! Not to mention these unhealthy... feelings he's developing for a certain trumpet player...


**A/N:** **Hello, Hetalia fandom! I am PitFTW, a newcomer to this archive but a veteren writer. I do hope you enjoy my little introduction to the archive.**

**This fic is based off of some nice little adventures I had in my own band camp experience. Don't worry! Band camp is not nearly as lewd as the movie portrays it as! **

**Title: Part of the Band**

**Summary: Arthur Kirkland, Drum Major, didn't know what to expect for Band Camp. Between all the idiotic antics, that stupid perverted Frog, and random romances, there's no way he'd survive this year! Not to mention these unhealthy... feelings he's developing for a certain trumpet player...**

**Pairings: USUK, implied GiriPan, RoChu, GerIta, Spamano, AusHun, PruCan, DenNor, and Franchelles if you squint.**

* * *

_Before Band Camp_

_7:45 AM _

"Good morning, Ludwig," the blonde said as he stepped out onto the football field. His fellow Drum Major said nothing, merely staring at the watch attached to his left wrist. No doubt, he was staring at the second hand again, watching it tick on by.

He sighed. "You are quite aware that this is merely a casual meeting with the Section Leaders before the camp begins, right? There is no need for them to be exactly on time, so long as they aren't thirty minutes late or so..."

Ludwig narrowed his ice blue eyes. "We specifically said the meeting would be at eight in the morning on the dot. As Head Drum Major, it is my duty to make sure that our band runs smoothly and efficiently. This means that no Section Leader should be late to any sort of meeting whatsoever and that all Section Leaders have their music memorized, their count structures written down, their dot books prepared, their instruments assembled and ready to go, and of course we shouldn't forget-"

He held up a pale hand, stopping the blonde before he could get any further in his spiel. "The Section Leaders all have about a quarter of an hour left to get here. Knowing how Yao and Kiku are, they'll be here in ten."

Ludwig pursed his lips, considering the Brit's reasoning. "... I suppose... when you put it that way..." the German junior gave him a small nod. "Very well, Arthur. I will accept such reasoning for now... but of course, if any of them are late, then I will make sure that they run until they can barely pick up their own instruments, let alone play them!"

Arthur rolled his eyes, allowing a rare smile to grace his features. With his immaculate conducting technique, detail-oriented methods, and commanding presence, there was absolutely no surprise in the world that Ludwig Beilschmidt had managed to land the spot of Head Drum Major. Of course, when it came down to time-keeping, the man was quite obsessive.

Two years ago, when Ludwig was still a freshman Baritone player, he had arrived a whole two hours early for practice to, in his words, "make sure that not a single piece of turf was out of place!". Only a sophomore back then, Arthur had been shocked to find the young German freshman meticulously scouring the field for "misplaced" bits of rubber. Even back then, after working for hours under the hot sun, not a single strand of the German's carefully slicked back hair was out of place. Yes, there was no doubt amongst any members of the Chikyuu Marching Band that Ludwig Beilschmidt would one day become a Drum Major.

The real surprise came from the choice to be the Assistant Drum Major: Arthur Kirkland. Between his short-temper, cynical personality, and reclusive habits, the only thing that any members of the band knew him for was the fact that- thanks to that stupid Frog spreading rumors- he was a bad cook. Those rumors weren't true at all! He was a perfectly fine cook and it wasn't his fault that his scones were so terrific that most could not handle them. What was more, just because he would rather seek solace with his _real_ friends over 90% of the band, that didn't mean that he was a recluse! Flying Mint Bunny was a lot more intelligent than any of that stupid Frog's so-called friends!

Either way, after a rather smooth audition and a terrific interview, the Englishman had been promoted from a mere player to Assistant Drum Major. And it had only taken him until his junior year! Of course, compared to Ludwig's promotion during sophomore year, it was nothing, but at least he could show that stupid Frog who's boss!

"Ah! Angleterre! Ludwig! _Nous sommes arrivés!" _

Oh, speak of the devil.

A large group was making its way across the field, led by a slim young man with wavy shoulder-length blonde hair. Blue eyes the color of aquamarines twinkled merrily from a (dare he say it?) finely chiseled face with a stubble-covered chin. Most striking about him, though, was his outfit.

"FRANCIS BONNEFOY, WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU WEARING!?" Arthur screamed before he could stop himself, gesturing to the Frenchman's attire: a blue coat, matching caplet, red pants, and brown boots. "That stuff looks bloody expensive! Do you not have a single care for-"

"Ohonhon, Angleterre, you are so adorable when you spew out your ignorance for the latest French fashions and such!" Francis interrupted with a carefree toss of his hair. "Do you not see how lovely I look with my caplet and my coat flowing in the wind? How the pants bring out the blue of the outfit and my eyes? How the boots are custom-made to allow me to march without bringing harm to my beautiful toes? Why, this outfit will surely allow me to bring the French Horns to their fullest potential!"

"First off, you march the Mellophone, you git, not the French Horn. Second off, all I see in this ridiculous attire is a disaster waiting to happen," Arthur replied bluntly. He smirked inwardly when Francis' face fell.

"Ah, I am wounded, _mon cher_! So wounded! Must you mock my precious instrument _and_ my clothing?"

"Your clothing is unsuited for the weather, Frog! Do you not realize that it's going to be nearly a hundred degrees out here? I ought to make you go change right now, except knowing you, you'd molest those poor freshmen on your way in, and-"

"Even so," Ludwig said, looking over as he temporarily interrupted his conversation with the Sousaphone Section Leader, Berwald."Much as I dislike to admit it, there is nothing in the band handbook saying that he can't wear that... I will talk to Director Roma soon to change that, but for now..." he trailed off and shook his head before turning back to his conversation. Not for the first time, Arthur cursed the other Drum Major's interpretation of the band handbook.

"Maybe he's just jealous, _mi amigo_," Antonio, a brown-haired, green-eyed senior suggested. "After all, it _is_ our last year! And he's yet to get a girlfriend..."

Arthur whirled on the Saxophone Section Leader. "You stay out of this, git! I still haven't forgiven you for that damn tequila in my tea!"

The Spaniard's smile didn't reach his eyes. "_Lo siento_, Arthur. I thought it was pretty funny. After all, not every day you see the Drum Major screaming about fairy poison in his tea."

Francis snickered. "Or stripping down to his underwear and singing _'I'm a Walrus_'."

If it weren't for the fact that he would get in serious trouble if he did anything, Arthur would have started pummeling Antonio and Francis at that moment.

"It would seem that you need an excuse to escape something, Arthur-san," a soft voice spoke up behind him.

Arthur let out a low sigh. "You have no idea, Kiku..." he turned around to face his long-time friend.

Kiku was a quiet boy of Japanese descent, with dark eyes and a neatly trimmed mop of black hair. Because he had just recently moved from his homeland, he still spoke with a slight Japanese accent. In spite of his seemingly introverted personality, anyone that knew Honda Kiku well enough would know that he was absolutely fascinated with learning about cultures outside of his native Japan. What was more, there was no denying that Kiku was one of the best Clarinet players the Chikyuu Marching Band had ever seen. There was little surprise when he was announced to be the Section Leader of the Clarinets.

Kiku gave the Brit a small smile. "Other than your most recent squabble with Francis-san, have you been doing well?"

Arthur shook his head. "The brothers are being gits as usual, not to mention the fact that Peter's starting as a freshman this year and seems to think he'll be able to dispose Yao as Pit Section Leader just because he can hit a bloody triangle in time..."

Kiku shrugged lightly, which Arthur knew to be the equivalent of a hearty laugh. "Do not worry yourself about Peter-kun. He will see soon enough that playing the triangle takes much skill... and that catching up to Yao takes a great miracle."

Arthur snorted. "What about you, Kiku? How have you and Heracles been holding up?"

Kiku tilted his head, a small smile creasing his features at the mention of the Grecian Clarinet player. "We have both been well, thank you for asking. We are quite excited to hear of the incoming freshmen this year."

"Right!" Arthur snapped his fingers. "You mentioned one of them being especially good, right? What's-her-name, the Taiwanese girl..."

"Xiao Mei," Kiku supplied. "And yes, she is quite good. I am hoping that she will be able to take over the section one day."

Arthur blinked in surprise. "Kiku, you're only a junior! You've still got one year left, you know."

The Clarinet player tilted his head in response. "It always serves to be well-prepared, Arthur-san."

"Ja, I agree," Ludwig's deep voice rumbled as he approached, a scowl lining his features. "Have either of you two seen _mein bruder_? It is already 7:59 and he is nowhere to be found!"

"Did he not arrive with Francis and Antonio?" Arthur questioned. "Those three idiots are usually seen together."

"He said something about picking up the new transfers to come meet us~" Antonio said cheerfully.

"P-Picking up!?" Ludwig stuttered. "_Mein gott,_ I specifically said that this meeting was for Section Leaders only!"

"Relax, _Allemagne_!" Francis laughed. "Gilbert is fully aware that this meeting is only for Section Leaders. He was simply giving the new students a ride!"

Ludwig twitched. "That does not excuse him from being blatantly late to an important-"

The roar of a powerful engine filled the air. Arthur barely had time to register the source of the noise before he and the other band leaders were forced to dive to the side. A jet black Volkswagen Beetle with red flames painted on the side ripped its way through the weak fence surrounding the football field. It raced onto the field, kicking up a cloud of dust and turf in its wake, black smog roiling out of the exhaust pipe. It skidded to a stop at the front side line, leaving black skid-marks behind it as it went.

Arthur coughed as he breathed in the disgusting fumes of the exhaust, wondering how in the world anyone could ever deal with such a terrible vehicle. His answer came in the form of the driver jumping out of the car, pumping his fist as he was immediately surrounded by Antonio and Francis. The senior's silvery hair gleamed in the bright sunlight, his red eyes still wide with excitement from his grand entrance. In spite of his extreme anger, Arthur couldn't help but amusedly note that a small yellow chick was perched atop the albino's head.

"Kesesese! Was that awesome or was that awesome!?" Gilbert Beilschmidt, the Percussion Section Leader shouted as he whirled on the still-recovering band leaders. "I bet that entrance was so awesome, I invented a new way to say awesome!"

"What you _invented_ was a new hole in the fence, bruder!" Ludwig shouted angrily. "Not to mention that you are exactly two minutes and thirty-seven seconds late! You owe me one lap around the track at the end of practice _und_ you must clean up your mess!"

Gilbert snorted and waved his hand at his younger brother. "Ja, ja, I get it, West. Now, since the Awesome Me is here, can we get started with the meeting yet?"

Arthur cleared his throat, trying his best to suppress his pounding headache. "Yes... well... er... as you know, as band leaders, you must be able to set the example and show the rookie band members how things are run here. Laziness, obnoxiousness, and overall stupidity will not be tolerated this year. Our last season was a great success and I believe that if we put in as much energy this season as last season, we will be able to grow more as a band and as a team. Therefore, it is imperative that we all work together and-"

The Flute Section Leader, Elizabeta, raised her hand. Arthur stopped mid-sentence and nodded at her, urging her to continue.

"What if the person you must work with constantly insists on insulting your boyfriend?"

Arthur blinked. "Well... I suppose you ought to deal-"

"What if the person you must work with constantly tries to whack the awesome you with a frying pan because she's a not-awesome, crazy bitch?" Gilbert asked.

Arthur turned to the albino. "Now see here, Gilbert-"

"What if the person you must work with is a stupid pervert who won't stop sending his stupid bird to take pictures of your boobs?" Elizabeta interrupted.

"Now see here, Elizabeta-"

"What if the person you must work with is constantly trying to set you up with men when it is obvious that you are too awesome to be gay?" Gilbert snapped.

"What if-"

"ENOUGH!" Ludwig shouted, causing the quarreling Section leaders to flinch. "I've had enough of you two with your constant bickering! This season, we will be diligent, work as a team, and not let stupid childhood squabbles disturb the peace of the band! Now both of you, drop and give me sixty!"

Grumbling, the two Section Leaders complied, each trying to outdo the other. Arthur cleared his throat again and turned to the assembled Section Leaders. "Well... any other questions?" when no one answered (save Francis asking for a date), he nodded. "Alright, well, you are all dismissed. Please meet with your sections and make sure that they are prepared for a lot of hard work. Marching band is not just fun and games, you know."

As Arthur left the field, he couldn't help but notice that Gilbert and Elizabeta were still doing push-ups. They had gone well-beyond 60 by now. From the sound of the counting, they had gone well into the 200's...

He sighed. Their sections would go to Hell with them in charge.

* * *

_Day One: Fundamentals_

_1:30 PM_

"Arthur, mate, there's something that you should know..." the Trumpet Section Leader said as he walked over to the Assistant Drum Major while the rest of the band was taking a water break, "About the transfer..."

"Who? Matthew? Lovely lad. Could be louder, though. Sometimes, I think it's _just_ Francis that's playing that ridiculous excuse of a marching band-style French Horn," Arthur stated lightly. "What's wrong with him? ... And how come you're talking to me about him if he isn't even in your section?" green eyes widened in fear. "Francis hasn't taken to molesting him already, has he!?"

Jett sighed. "Naw, it's not him... forgot that he even existed. No, it's a guy in my section..." he winced. "That bloody American, mate."

Arthur frowned. Yes, he had heard a few reports of this American transfer student before. Alfred F. Jones, a junior, had transferred to Chikyuu High from some kind of American boarding school. Arthur had seen him during the orientation earlier that day, chatting with a pretty girl with long dark hair and red ribbons. It was impossible for Arthur _not_ to miss him, as the young man had been incredibly loud. Not only that, but he was standing next to a pile of hamburger wrappers so tall that they reached Arthur's knee. The British teen had written him off as one of those kids who would end up puking on their first day, but somehow, the American had managed to keep all those burgers down _and_ march quite well.

Fundamentals block was always one of his least favorite parts of Band Camp. He, Ludwig, and the marching band staff had to teach the rookies how to march. Most of the time, the Freshmen were terrible until they reached Sophomore year. Those that weren't Freshman often fared better, but it still took a while for them to figure out the basics. Arthur never understood why people always had so much trouble. How hard was it to distinguish a person's right foot from their left?

The American had surprised him. While others, such as his twin brother Matthew, struggled with keeping in time, the teen had not only marched with perfect technique, but also managed to keep up with the metronome while it was at 200 beats a minute. Not even the best senior marcher, Toris, could keep up with that! What was more, the boy had somehow managed to play _and_ march at the same time. While other band members, such as Romano Vargas and even Antonio Carriedo struggled to keep their instruments from shaking as they marched, this loud American boy had managed to hold his trumpet steady and play with a beautiful sound at the same time!

Arthur made a mental note to have him tested for drugs later.

"Yes, what about him?" Arthur asked.

"He doesn't shut up is the problem, mate," Jett answered as he led Arthur over to the trumpet section. "No matter how many times I shout at him or tell him to go run a lap, he just comes back and starts earbashing it up again. Can't get the guy to concentrate, no matter how hard I try!"

Arthur sighed. He had dealt with troublemakers before. In fact, just that morning, he had to shout at a freshman, Feliciano Vargas, for shouting "PASTA~!" during every reset and for marching so badly that he was a hazard to the rest of the band. The young Italian had taken his laps very seriously, especially when Arthur had threatened to chase the poor boy around the track until he finished his mile. After that fiasco, Ludwig had taken it upon himself to teaching Feliciano how to march properly and, of course, how to play his Alto Saxophone and march at the same time.

"Alright, show me to him, Jett. I should have him behaving in no time."

Jett nodded and brought the Drum Major over to the trumpet section, where the various members were milling about. Arthur's green eyes scanned over the relaxing teens, briefly brushing over a Vietnamese girl before settling on a tall young man cheerfully playing the Superman theme song through his trumpet. Alfred F. Jones, as if aware of his new audience, stopped playing his trumpet and put it down, turning to stare right back at Arthur.

His eyes were, in every sense of the word, beautiful. They were wide, framed by golden lashes, and flashed brilliantly behind a pair of wire glasses. They were intelligent eyes, full of energy and laughter. From the tiny wrinkles framing them, it was obvious that the owner of these eyes laughed often. Their color was exquisite; sky blue with just the slightest hint of violet.

The sky blue pools struck a chord in Arthur. Nevermind the wheat-colored hair, the strong jaw, the obviously muscular body, or the perfect lips; it was the eyes. The eyes were what he wanted. These were eyes that were brighter than any star in the sky.

Arthur shook his head. What in the world was he thinking? Did he _seriously _just compare a pair of _eyes, _of all things, to stars? How cheesy could he get?

"Alfred F. Jones, I presume?" he asked, trying to keep his voice curt.

Perfect lips rose into what could only be called the perfect smile. "Arthur Kirkland, I presume?" the American's voice was something else entirely; light, loud, and above all, _free_. It was music to Arthur's ears. "What's up, dude?"

Arthur frowned. "Your Section Leader has told me of your behavior. I hope you know that such blatant disrespect for your superiors will not be tolerated in this band. What is more, you are to-"

"Hey, can I call ya Artie?" Alfred asked suddenly, carelessly spinning his silverly trumpet in one hand.

Arthur blinked. "I-I... what?"

"Ooh! Looks like Director Roma wants us to reset!" Alfred said excitedly, leaping to his feet. "Seeya around, Artie!" with that, he ran off, leaving an incredibly confused and angry Brit.

"Get back here, git! I'm not done lecturing you!"

* * *

_Day Two: Sectionals_

_10:30 AM_

"Let's start that again," Arthur said, green eyes sweeping over the percussion players assembled in front of him. "Those rolls were terrible, and don't get me started on you Base Drums and your inability to watch my hands. And Peter, for God's sake, _count__! _You have probably the simplest part of the entire ensemble and yet, it is _you_ that is constantly missing your cues! I cannot be any clearer!"

"It's not my fault you suck at conducting!" his younger cousin retorted. Arthur had to clench his fists in order to prevent himself from strangling the offending Freshman.

"Hey! No talking back to the Drum Major, aru!" Wang Yao, the Pit Captain, snapped. "When we are done here, you are to run two laps around the track, aru! While carrying the Drum Major's podium!"

Li Xiao looked up from shining his cymbals long enough to raise a rather large eyebrow. "Is that even legal?"

"Of course! It is ancient Chinese punishment, aru!"

"Kesesese! I like it!" Gilbert snickered. The small chick, which Gilbert had named Gilbird, was perched on the self-proclaimed Prussian's snare drum. "Mind if I borrow that awesome punishment, Yao?"

Arthur ground his teeth together. "FOCUS! Yes, as much fun as it is to discuss 'ancient Chinese punishments', we have work to do! Now, if you all will please look at Measure 132, and-"

"I don't do anything in that measure!" Peter whined. Arthur slowly turned to look at his cousin, right eye twitching erratically.

"... Very well... how about we go to Measure 131 instead? Peter has a pretty good triangle part there, and-"

"That part's too bloody hard!" Peter whined again. Arthur felt a vein throbbing in his forehead.

"Alright, then why don't we go back to the top of the whole bloody movement and-"

"That takes too long!"

"Peter, aru! Must I make you run a mile!?"

"That wasn't me this time, Yao! I swear!"

Arthur saw Yao's brows furrow, fury flashing in the Chinese man's eyes. Not for the first time, the Brit was glad that he wasn't on the wrong side of Yao's anger. It was said that Yao was nearly as good with a wok and ladle as Elizabeta was with a frying pan.

"First you talk back to the Drum Major, then you lie, aru!?" Yao reached behind his marimba and pulled out a ladle. "What next? Random American popping out form behind synthesizer piano, aru!?"

Arthur wasn't sure at that point if it had been an ironic twist of fate or just dumb luck. But as soon as the words left Yao's mouth, lo and behold, a flash of wheat-colored hair appeared, followed by a rather obnoxious laugh. A tall form suddenly popped out from behind the synth, shocking poor Roderich Edelstein. Arthur didn't need to see the wire-framed glasses, or the gravity-defying cowlick to know who it was.

He just needed to see those sky blue eyes.

"Ahahaha! Check out my awesome heroism!" Alfred shouted, grinning widely. "I am here to save the damsel in distress!" he pointed at Peter. "From the horrible clutches of the Evil Chinese Emperor of Doomsday!" he pointed at Yao.

Yao's left eye gained a new twitch. "Who the Hell are you, aru!?"

Alfred's grin widened. "I'm the hero!"

Arthur groaned, placing his palm to his forehead. "Yao, this is Alfred. Alfred, who _shouldn't_ be here and who _should_ be with Ludwig, where his proper Sectional is!"

"But that's boring!" Alfred complained. "Ludwig is teaching everyone the basics! I already know the basics because I'm a hero!"

"Heroism equals knowing basics?" Ivan, a Bass Drum player asked. "Does that mean Pit Section Leader equals one with Mother Russia, da?"

Yao twitched. "How many time do I have to tell you, aru!? I do not wish to become one with you!"

"Either way," Arthur said firmly, trying his best to tune out the whining "Sealander", the cheerfully smiling Russian, and the fuming Chinese man. "You shouldn't be here. You are not a percussionist and this is an exclusively percussionist sectional."

Alfred tilted his head, grinning cheekily. "Whatcha gonna do, Artie? Gimme laps?" his loud laughter rang through the air at the little quip. "You know laps don't bug me! The more I run, the more I work out! The more I work out, the better hero I can be!"

Arthur sighed. Looks like he would have to take a creative approach with this one. "Why don't you help Ludwig teach the basics, since you already know them so well?"

Alfred snorted. "Now why would I want to do that?"

"Well... aren't you constantly saying how much you wish to be a hero? Well, by helping Ludwig teach, you... er... save the rest of the band from becoming bored by Ludwig, don't you?"

Perfect blue eyes blinked, understanding flashing behind them. "Hmm... well, if you put it that way..."

The Englishman decided to lay it on a little thicker. "And don't you think you will also be a hero to Feliciano? If you help Ludwig teach the class, he will be able to do more one-on-one teaching. I am quite sure Feliciano will be thankful to no end for the extra attention Ludwig would give him, thanks to your... heroism."

Alfred's eyes widened, giving him the look of an excited puppy. Arthur felt a light warmth brush his cheeks as the American bounced up and down, as if he had just downed several cups of coffee. Never before had he seen a smile so bright. If Chikyuu High was the east, then Alfred's smile was surely the sun.

... Alright, what the Hell was wrong with him?

"You're right, dude! I can be a totally cool hero if I do all that!" Alfred crowed happily as he pulled his trumpet out from the synthesizer. (Roderich nearly fainted in horror at the mis-use of the pseudo-piano). "Artie, you're the best! Band camp is gonna be AWESOME!"

"HEY! THAT'S MY WORD, YOU UN-AWESOME BASTARD!" Gilbert shouted as the American sped off.

* * *

_Day Three: Drill_

_3:00 PM_

"Dress set dress!" Ludwig called from his podium at the front of the field. Hearing the order, the band immediately pulled out their drill sheets and began fixing the form.

They had given the band the drill to the first movement of the marching show this year, _The Beautiful World_, just that morning. The drill dictated where each band member was supposed to end up at certain points in the music. It was the entire point of marching band; after all, what was the point of just marching back and forth across a football field, unless the band members made pretty pictures to help entertain the audience as well?

From the back side line of the field, Arthur pulled out his own drill notebook to see what kind of form the band was dressing at this time. Since the entire first movement of the show had the band facing the front of the field, there was no real need for Arthur to be conducting at this moment. Once they got to the second or third movement of the show, however, Arthur would definitely be needed. But for now, Ludwig was in charge and Arthur was more concerned about when his next tea break would be.

It would seem that at that moment, the band would be fixing a form that looked an awful lot like an abstract plate of pasta. Wrinkling his nose, Arthur began wondering what in the world had gotten into Director Roma to request such a shape. It wasn't like it was a _bad_ shape- after all, this was Feliciano's favorite set and he always hit his mark on this one- it was just that it was so bloody unusual.

Just like the wurst set, the sushi set, the vodka bottle set, and, of all things, the hamburger set.

So absorbed was he in studying these strange food-related sets that he did not notice footsteps approaching. Nor did he notice the flash of wheat-gold until it was too late. In fact, Arthur was completely unaware of _anything_ until he looked up.

He saw pools that reflected the sky.

Ears burning, Arthur struggled to find words, trying his best not to get lost in the American's unending eyes. "W-Wha-... Can I help you?"

Pink lips curled into a smirk. "Naw, I was just wondering why I'm stuck back here if I'm the soloist."

Arthur blinked. "S-Soloist!? You... I mean... I... what... scones..."

Alfred laughed, throwing back his head. "Damn, Artie, how slow are ya? Director Roma totally said yesterday that I was gonna be the soloist! Ain't that awesome or what?"

Arthur bit his bottom lip. "B-But... soloists are usually at the front of the field, aren't they?"

Alfred shrugged. "Yeah, it was like that at my old school. But according to my dot sheet, I'm here." he held up the small paper, pointing to the set in question. "Guess my trumpet playing skills are too awesome to be put in the front! Ha!"

"H-Hang on a sec!" Arthur sputtered, flipping through his binder to search for the set. There had to be _some_ mistake. There was no way Director Roma would stick a _soloist_ in the back field, of all things! What was more, he had to get this American as far away from his side of the field as possible. It was already distracting enough that his golden hair always caught the sunlight, his slightly tanned skin shimmering with sweat as he ran back and forth across the field...

Snap out of it, git.

"Right, here's the set," Arthur said finally, holding up what looked like to be a picture of a blob (?). "And your dot is right there... right in the back... of the... field..." the Brit's shoulders deflated instantly. Was Director Roma _trying_ to drive him mad? "Of course, I don't see what's so important about this... blob thing..."

Alfred grinned. "Ain't it obvious, Artie? It's a scone!" he pointed to the paper. "There's the uppermost part of it. Looks like it's the saxophones making that one ridge over there. Most of the trumpets are lined up at the top, but I'm at the end so when we go to the next set, the bowl of rice, I'm like the top grain of rice or something!"

Arthur blinked. "W-Well... I'm sure that is quite the analysis, but that still doesn't really explain why there are so many food-related sets, and-"

Alfred laughed. "Dude, you don't get it? The foods are all from different countries. Our show's called 'The Beautiful World', right?"

"Right," Arthur replied, wondering where the American was coming from.

"So don't all these foods represent different countries? Like pasta, from Italy and wurst, from Germany?" realization dawned on Arthur as the trumpet player continued. "And sooner or later, I bet Director Roma's gonna have us all making flags across the field. Or even the shapes of the countries! How cool would that be? This show would really reflect the band, then!"

"R-Reflect the band?" Arthur asked, his head still spinning from the meaning of the food items.

"Well, yeah! I mean, just look at us! You got me from the States, Francis from France, Antonio from Spain, my bro from Canada, Michelle from Seychelles, Ivan from Russia, Kiku from Japan, Gilbert and Ludwig from Germany, Feliciano and Romano from Italy... and of course..." he grinned and gently ruffled the Englishman's hair. "You, from jolly old England!"

Arthur reddened at the touch, his words catching in his throat. "I-I..."

"RESET!" Ludwig shouted from the front of the field.

Alfred grinned. "Seeya around, Artie. Hope I helped you out with the meaning of the show!" and with that, he raced off, his shorts riding up slightly, nicely outlining the shape of his...

Arthur hid his face behind his binder for the rest of practice.

* * *

_Day Four: Opener_

_4:00 PM_

"Hey Artie! Dude, can I ask you something?" the American asked as he jogged over to where the senior was eating his dinner. Arthur stopped his fork full of Shepherd's Pie halfway to his mouth, set it down, and turned around. He had been in the middle of a wonderful book about the occult and of course, he just had to get interrupted. He squirmed slightly as Alfred's smile widened at his attention, praying to all the powers above that the trumpet player would not notice his ears turning red.

"Yes, Alfred, what is it?" he had given up on the nickname thing. If the American continually insisted on calling him ridiculous names, then he was stuck with it. Of course, that didn't mean he had to like it.

"What instrument do you play, dude?" Alfred plunked his own food- five hamburgers, a large fries, and two large shakes- down onto the table and started eating. "I know what's-his-name-Italian-obsessed-German-guy play Baritone in Wind Ensemble, but I don't know what you play and no one's telling me!"

"Well, good, perhaps you ought to stop nosing into others' businesses," Arthur said curtly, tapping his fingers on his book. "You made it into Wind Ensemble anyways, didn't you? You'll know when school starts up."

"But Artie, I want to know _now_!" Alfred whined, crossing his arms and pouting. "It's not fair, you know what I play!"

"Not my fault that you chose your instrument," Arthur said drily.

Alfred grinned. "Why don't we make a game of it?"

"A game?"

"Hell's yeah!" Alfred rubbed his hands together. "I get until the end of Band Camp to guess your instrument! If I guess right, you owe me a favor! If I don't, I owe you a favor!" he leaned close. "That cool?"

With the American leaning so close, Arthur nearly closed the distance between them. Still, the British teen swallowed his pride and found his voice. "W-Well... I don't see why not... though I must say, if the favor is anything like something Francis would ask, then-"

"Awesome!" Alfred pumped his fist into the air. "Okay, okay... so... trumpet, trombone, or tuba?"

Arthur smirked. "Nope, nope, and... nope."

"Dammit!" Alfred cursed. "French horn?"

"Hell no, git."

"Flute?"

"No."

"Clarinet? Base Clarinet?"

"No and no."

"Piano? Marimba? Baritone?"

"No, no, and no," Arthur said defiantly. "Now, are you here simply to bother me about that or do you have an actual question? I'm in the middle of quite a good book, and-"

"Book?" Alfred interrupted, seeing the occult book for the first time. "About what?"

Arthur bristled. "None of your business. You probably wouldn't be interested any- HEY!" he was too slow in preventing the American from reaching across the table and swiping the book away. Damn.

"'Mysteries of the Occult and its Various Branches?'" Alfred read, raising an eyebrow. "You mean like... dark magic, Iggy?"

"I- what's with the nickname? No, nevermind, don't tell me. But anyways, yes, there is a section on magic, but occult actually refers simply to the mysteries of the unknown. This can apply to anything paranormal and the like."

"Huh... you know, I saw this movie recently that was pretty interesting. Ever heard of 'The Exorcist'?"

"What? How can you have seen that recently? It is a horror movie classic!"

"Hey, not my fault! I'm freaking scared of ghosts, man! And when that little girl went down the stares... UGH!"

"Oh, come now, it was simply a contortionist acting as the little girl..."

They spent the entire dinner hour sitting there, talking about... everything. Arthur spoke about his opinions on movies, books, Doctor Who, the stupid Frog, and of course, Shakespeare. Alfred nearly yakked Arthur's ears off from talking about comic books, superheroes, movies, food, and how much Ivan, the "commie bastard" ticked him off.

Their last topic before dinner was over was rather sensitive.

"In my opinion, I think we should make gay marriage legal, honestly," Alfred said. "I mean, all of these people insisting that it's wrong because it's not in the Bible and all of that should really get their noses out of the thing. It's a hundred-year-old book where the magical sky genie of doom kills more people than the magical Hell genie. And that's _not_ counting that one flood that destroyed 99% of humankind... but anyways, since I swing for the other team myself, I-"

"Wait, wait, back up," Arthur said suddenly, shaking his head in surprise. "Y-You... you are..." he hesitated.

Alfred suddenly went quiet. "... Gay? Yeah... I am..." he shifted uncomfortably. "I-I guess... heh... s-sorry. I should just-" he stood up to leave.

Arthur caught the sleeve of the American's shirt as he left. "Wait." Alfred turned around, a hint of fear behind his perfect blue eyes.

Arthur swallowed. "Me too, Alfred. Me too."

* * *

_Day Five: Ballad_

_12:30 PM_

"Ohonhonhon, Angleterre, is that a blush I see upon your ghastly pale visage?" Francis asked, waggling his finely shaped eyebrows suggestively. "Who, pray tell, has stolen the black hole you call a heart, hm~?"

"What the bloody Hell are you talking about, Frog?" Arthur asked bluntly, inwardly raging at the redness of his face. It was lunchtime and morning block had been especially hot that day. So hot, in fact, that quite a few band boys had opted to removing their shirts.

And he was _certainly_ not looking at a certain American's six-pack. Or his rippling biceps. Or his finely formed pecs. Or his legs. Or his arse. Nope, nope, nooooope!

Antonio laughed, poking Arthur in the chest. "It's okay, Eyebrows! Don't be so mad! After all, Lovi looks so good without a shirt too~!"

Before Arthur could answer, Gilbert decided to jump in. "Kesesese! No one looks as awesome as the Awesome Me without a shirt! But the awesomely pasty Canadian comes close!"

"You bloody idiots," Arthur seethed. "I did not ask to be in a conversation about... about you vulgar, shirtless males!"

"Ah, but Angleterre, you have the face of one who is faced with intense _l'amour_~!" Francis said. "Tell us, _mon ami_! Is it the handsome Kiku? The illustrious Roderich? The beautiful Yao? The stoic Ludwig? The cheerful Feliciano? The cute little Peter? The-"

"W-Wha... What the Hell, Frog!?" Arthur screamed. "Peter's my bloody cousin!"

Francis flipped his hair. "Ah! I understand now! It is obvious!" he smiled, showing off perfect white teeth. "You are in _l'amour_ with _moi_~!"

Arthur really lost it at that point. He leaped onto the offending Frenchman, his hands reaching for his throat, ready for the kill. A pair of strong arms- those belonging to Magnus, the Sousaphone Section Leader- pried the angry Brit off of Francis. Gilbert and Antonio, meanwhile, were laughing too hard and making too many "Arthur jumped Francis!" jokes to care.

"I am afraid that I must disappoint you, _mon cher_," Francis said, smirking as Arthur practically foamed at the mouth. "But my heart has been stolen by a sweet maiden from Seychelles. You know Michelle, the Color Guard Captain, non~?"

"One of these days, I'm shoving that bloody Mellophone _and_ French Horn of yours up your bloody arse," Arthur vowed angrily.

Magnus laughed. "Calm the heck down, Eyebrows. As much as we wanna hear about how much you wanna stick stuff up Francis' ass, you should save the dirty talk for-"

"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE ON MY SIDE, YOU BLOODY WANKER!"

"Kesesese! This is awesome! Almost as awesome as Gilbird!"

"Ah, if only my Lovi was nearly this affectionate," Antonio placed a hand over his heart. "Then it would be perfect~!"

"But Angleterre, if it is not me you claim to be in _l'amour_ with, who is?" Francis pressed, having recovered from being tackled. "It is not Herakles, is it? If so, I would think even Kiku would fly into a terrible rage..."

"L-Like I would tell you," Arthur sputtered angrily, looking away.

Big mistake. It just so happened at that moment that Alfred was running by. Alfred, who had no shirt. Alfred, who was out-racing most of the band. Alfred, whose body was glistening from when he had run through the sprinklers, whose golden hair was plastered all over his face, whose cowlick continued to defy gravity, whose blue eyes sparkled in joy...

"Ohonhonhon~!" Francis chuckled, causing Arthur to snap back to reality. The British man whipped his head to stare at the Frog, not noticing when Magnus put him back on the ground.

"... What's so damn funny, Frog?"

"Oh, nothing, Angleterre~!" France said, eyes sparkling. "Just happy that there is so much _l'amour_in the world."

* * *

_Day Six: Closer_

_6:00 PM_

"ARTIE! Artie, Artie, Artie, Artie, Artie~!" Alfred yelled from across the field, waving his trumpet around. "ARTIIIIIIIE!"

"WHAT DO YOU WANT, YOU BLOODY GIT!?" Arthur finally shouted back, cheeks burning as he noticed that, once again, Alfred lacked a shirt. "Can't you see I'm busy here!?" Ludwig was busy instructing the rookies (Feliciano, specifically) on the finer points of marching in time. Therefore, it was Arthur that was standing on the front field podium today. The thing elevated the Brit an extra five feet off the ground. It was probably one of the most terrifying things in the history of ever, right next to Ivan's younger sister in the color guard.

"DUDE! I totally know what you play now!" Alfred said proudly as he dashed over. "I figured it out all by myself!"

Arthur froze. Impossible! He made sure that no one in the band or color guard would dare tell the American what instrument the Englishman played in Wind Ensemble. And even though he knew that Alfred was definitely no idiot from their conversation over drill a couple days ago, there was just no way the American would get over his obliviousness long enough to figure _anything_ out!

Not to mention, the fact that he had tried so many times already. They had already gone through flute, clarinet, all the saxophone varieties, pretty much every possible percussion instrument, trombone, baritone, trumpet, tuba, base trombone, bassoon, base clarinet, and even the bloody _piccolo_. And still, the American had not guessed. Arthur, scared of what kind of favor he would owe the American, had hoped desperately that the young man's obliviousness persisted long enough for him to win the bet.

"Y-You didn't..." Arthur said weakly.

Alfred only laughed. "Hahaha! But I did! The hero always figures it out in the end! I, Alfred F. Jones, hereby announce that Arthur Kirkland plays-"

It came out of nowhere. A large white practice rifle, spinning through the air way off course. Katsuya, the thrower, shouted a warning as the heavy weapon made its way towards the Drum Major's podium. Arthur, his heart hammering, realized that he would never climb down in time to avoid it. And ducking was definitely out of the question. Green eyes flickered towards the ground.

Five feet was a long way to fall...

The streak of white came towards him quickly, too quickly. If he was hit, he could get a concussion or worse... and that was just from the rifle. The momentum would push him back and cause him to fall off the podium, where he would not likely be able to right himself in time to...

A flash of caught caught the blur of white, knocking it to the side. Shouting in surprise, Arthur took a step backwards, only for his foot to meet air. He vaguely heard the gasps of the rest of the band and Ludwig shouting something in German as the Brit tumbled backwards, the ground rushing up to meet him...

A pair of strong arms wrapped around his waist, freezing him mid-fall so that his nose barely brushed the track. Arthur's heart hammered as the person who caught him flipped him over and gently set him back on the ground. Arthur gazed up at his savior, his lips trembling slightly as he met the sky blue eyes of Alfred F. Jones.

Alfred was panting, whether from exertion or relief, he did not know. It took a lot to run from across the field at that kind of speed. It probably took even more to catch the British Drum Major as he fell, saving him from breaking his neck.

"A-Alfred..." Arthur whispered. The American said nothing, only leaning forward and wrapping his arms around the Drum Major, sobbing into his shoulder, whispering mindless words of relief into his messy hair. Arthur patted the trumpet player's shoulder, reaching up to gently stroke the ever-present cowlick. With Alfred's body pressing up so closely against his, he could hear the pounding of the American's heart.

There was something missing. Frowning, Arthur pulled out of the embrace and eyed the American critically. Nothing seemed to be broken on the trumpet player, so what...

His eyes widened as he whirled around.

The rifle lay not too far away from the podium, scratched up and a bit dirty, but otherwise unharmed. The slightest glint of gold near the weapon, however, was what drew Arthur's eye. He let out a low gasp as he gazed at it, unable to believe what he saw.

The rifles were throwable, but they were weighted so that they were well-balanced. When thrown with the right velocity, they could be deadly blunt weapons. It would seem that the rifle was hurtling a lot faster than Arthur had thought, because the hunk of gold next to it was, in fact, a trumpet.

A trumpet twisted all out of shape. A trumpet with most of its valves and springs blown right out of it. A trumpet whose bell was dented beyond simple repair.

A trumpet that was lost forever.

"A-Al..." Arthur whispered. "Y-Your... your trumpet..."

"Forget it," Alfred said hollowly. "I can always get a new one..."

"But Alfred, they're expensive... and that one was one of the best brands of trumpets, and-"

"And nothing. My parents have money. I can always get a new one."

"But Al-"

"But nothing, Arthur!" Alfred snapped, forcefully spinning the Drum Major around. Arthur trembled at the fury reflected in the American's blue eyes. "Don't you get it? The trumpet _doesn't matter_!" the hands that held his shoulders were trembling now. Tears began forming in the other man's eyes. "It's _you_, Arthur. It's _you_ I'm worried about. It's _you_ I care about. It's you, all you..." Alfred was sobbing now, his hands gripping Arthur's shoulder so hard it was almost painful. "You could've died just now, Arthur... you could've _died_ and left me and Kiku and Ludwig and Francis and the whole goddamn band. You could have died and all you think I care about is a _trumpet_!?"

"Alfred..." Arthur said weakly. It was too much. He hated watching Alfred cry. "Alfred, I-"

"From the first time we met, I... well, I knew you were special. No one becomes freaking Drum Major for nothing, and even though you were mean and insulting and all of that bullshit, you showed me a side of yourself that not even freaking _Kiku_ had seen before. And then the day you told me that you swung for the other team... it was the greatest goddamn day of my life! I had a chance with you. No matter how tiny it was, I had a freaking chance! I knew from that moment that I had to do everything I could to be worthy of you! And then today, as you fell, I... I couldn't take it. I didn't want you to be hurt. I had to save you, no matter what the cost," Alfred ranted, sobbing freely now. "I'm always talking about how much I want to be a hero... and I do. I _do_ want to be a hero. But goddammit, Arthur Kirkland... I don't want to just be any old hero. I want to be _your_ hero! I want to protect Arthur the Brit, Arthur the Drum Major, Arthur the band nerd, Arthur the occult geek, Arthur the _Oboe player_, and..." sapphire met emerald as the two gazed into each other's eyes. "Arthur the _Arthur_..."

Arthur gulped. His heart pounded. His palms sweated. His throat felt dry. "I-I..." Alfred was amazing. Handsome. Smart. Funny. Heroic. Loyal. Altruistic. Just all around _perfect_. "I-I... guess I owe you... that favor now..." he hated how weak his voice sounded, but from the look on the American's face, he had heard the reply anyways.

"... One date, Artie. Go out on one date with me."

* * *

_Day Seven: New Start_

_9:00 PM_

The dinner, in a single phrase, had been bloody amazing. Arthur had expected the American to take him somewhere cheap, perhaps McDonald's or something of the like. What he didn't expect was a fine steak restaurant on the first date, complete with a dozen rose bouquets and a limousine. He knew that Alfred's parents had money, but he didn't think they had _that_ much cash!

After dinner, Alfred insisted on taking the older teen out dancing. When the American had first mentioned such an activity, Arthur immediately thought he meant clubbing. Arthur was a decent dancer, but there was no way in Hell that he was going to "twerk" or "Gangnam style" or whatever in public. He had a reputation to keep up, after all.

And yet, Alfred surprised him again. The young man had rented out an entire ballroom, just for them. Arthur knew from the moment he walked in and gazed at the beautiful crystal chandeliers and polished hard-wood floors that the American had not spared a cent on their first date. Over in the corner, Arthur's eyes fell on a large grand piano, an instrument so beautiful that it only added to the magic of the room.

Alfred smiled and leaned down so his lips barely brushed his date's ear. "You haven't seen the best part yet, Artie... or should I say... you haven't _heard_ the best part yet..."

Before Arthur could question anything, a low sound interrupted his thoughts. It was a beautiful noise, high and slightly reedy, yet deep and gentle. Arthur's trained ears recognized the instrument immediately: a tenor saxophone.

Romano stepped out from behind a curtain, auburn curl bouncing slightly as he marched out and stood at the very edge of the room. His tenor saxophone gleamed bronze in the dim light of the ballroom. He was playing a song that Arthur could not recognize, but loved all the same.

But what was he doing here?

Arthur's thoughts were interrupted yet again when a new sound joined the tenor saxophone: the high, sweet music of an alto saxophone. From behind the same curtain Romano was hiding behind came Feliciano, smiling as he played the sweet instrument in harmony with his twin. The two saxophones mingled together gently, so beautifully in tune that Arthur wondered if these two sax players were the same ones who had given Director Roma so much grief while they were trying to practice the ballad from _The Beautiful World_ earlier.

Antonio stepped out next, his Bari Sax giving some low, gentle sounds to the higher music of the two other saxophones. The Spaniard's green eyes twinkled happily, but Arthur couldn't help but notice that they were looking right at Romano, who looked more at ease than ever. Now there was a trio of saxophones, filling the ballroom with a gentle jazzy rhythm.

A new sound entered now, very low in volume, but gloriously high in pitch and smoother than the stones at the bottom of a river. While there were only a few little notes at first, this new instrument soon launched into a long, complicated run, that only the most nimble of fingers could match. It was accompanied by a much lower sound, one that was almost guttural, but too beautiful to be described as such. Arthur was not surprised at all to see his good friends, Kiku and Herakles, step out together, their fingers moving in perfect harmony upon their clarinets. Kiku held a classical clarinet, but Herakles held the instrument he could not march with: his Base Clarinet.

Next came truly sweet music: the high, clear sound of a flute. Out of her hiding spot in the very back of the room stepped Elizabeta, her silvery flute gently undulating with each breath she took. Her fingers flew quickly across her instrument, not nearly as quickly as Kiku and Herakles, but fast enough so that her delicate fingers were a mere blur. She came with an accompanist: her boyfriend, Roderich Edelstein, who somehow materialized at the lone grand piano. The flutist and the pianist joined the saxophones and clarinets, creating a sweet melody that could be found nowhere else in the world. Arthur found himself fascinated by the way Roderich's fingers swept across the piano keys, his face showing a passion rarely shown when playing the "pseudo-piano" he had been assigned to during the season.

The melodies and harmony were beautiful, but there was something lacking about them that Arthur could not quite put his finger on. He frowned, furrowing his brows together as he tried to recall what exactly this surprise band seemed to lack. Before he could voice his concerns to Alfred, however, the problem was fixed.

Three percussionists stepped out from behind the piano, each of them pushing or pulling different instruments. Yao picked up his mallets and began playing gentle runs on his marimba, the volume so low that the runs were mere whispers amongst the texture of the woodwinds and piano. Ivan sat himself behind various timpanis, gently rumbling out little rhythms in time with the impromptu band. Arthur noted how Yao's and Ivan's eyes constantly flickered to each other, as if the two were watching each other as much as they were watching the way Elizabeta's flute seemed to conduct the band along. Last but not least was Gilbert, who covered the percussion instruments that the other two could not: chimes and maracas and cowbell and sleigh bells and triangle and just about every instrument in between. He did a good job of it too, running back and forth amongst the items while somehow _not_ looking frantic.

_We're just missing some brass players,_ Arthur thought. No sooner had that thought been formed that a gentle note filled the air, swept into the room as if by a wind. Blinking in surprise, Arthur nearly gave a shout as Ludwig stepped out, his baritone to his lips. Feliciano marched over to the German, his playing uninterrupted as the Italian stood next to the Drum Major. Arthur gave a light chuckle as Ludwig's cheeks colored, but said nothing as he closed his eyes and continued listening to the gentle undulation of the music.

The lowest sound of all came next: the strong, yet gentle note of a tuba line. It was soon accompanied by a sound that was very much like a baritone, but higher and all around more cheerful: the sliding of a trombone. In a pair stepped out Magnus and Lukas, the two playing the same line in harmony. Arthur's eyes widened at the addition of these new sounds, as the surprise band seemed quite complete with the addition of the two new arrivals.

But of course, it was still not enough. For on top of the woodwind melody, the brass harmony, and the quiet rhythm of percussion came a new sort of note: high and brassy, like a trumpet, but sweet and melodious like a flute. Francis stepped out now, French Horn in hand, mouthpiece to his lips. With Michelle's sea blue handkerchief stuffed in his pocket, the Frenchman looked every inch a man in love. There was no doubt that he was pretending that he was serenading the island girl as he gently played his French Horn.

Not too far away, what's-his-name the Canadian stepped out, violet eyes never wavering from the senior albino as his fingers danced across his bassoon. Arthur had never seen the boy playing bassoon before, but it made sense now. Bassoon players were wonderful when they were good, but under appreciated all the same. Matthew- yes, that was his name- was more than just good. From the way that his eyes never left Gilbert, it was obvious that his bassoon was reflecting every bit of love he felt for the albino before him.

It was a perfect band now; percussion, woodwinds, and brass all in one place. They weaved in and out, sometimes with harmony, sometimes with melody, and sometimes with nothing at all. There was no end to the passion that each musician placed into his instrument. As both a lover of music and an experienced musician, Arthur knew that there was nothing more beautiful in the world than musicians who loved their instruments so much that their passion poured into their music.

Then, the most beautiful sound of all arrived. It came as a mere whisper at first, but soon swelled into a truly gorgeous river of music. Arthur didn't need to turn around to know of the golden gleam of the trumpet, the way Alfred's strong fingers pressed down each valve, or the way young man's perfect blue eyes gazed at his British lover.

The trumpet solo ended as suddenly as it came. Though the other instruments continued to sing their sweet melodies, the trumpet stopped as Alfred made his way over to the piano and picked up something on the floor that Arthur had not noticed when he came in. The Brit's brows furrowed in curiosity as the American walked over with a medium-sized black box. The other musicians continued to play, though quite a few were oblivious to the happenings between the trumpet player and the Drum Major.

Arthur's head spun as the American knelt down on one knee and offered him the box. Trembling, Arthur reached out and undid the clasps, his fingers clumsily disobeying him. He swallowed, trying to allow moisture into his dry throat. All time seemed to freeze as the Britain took a deep breath and lifted the lid of the box.

Inside was a beautiful black Oboe.

"I-I..." Arthur stammered, unable to tear his gaze away from the long, thin instrument. It was a beautiful piece of work, made of black ebony with silvery keys. When he picked it up, he noted that it was custom-made; lighter than most oboes he had handled before, yet it felt sturdier. As he experimentally pressed the keys, he found that they moved fluidly and easily, which would allow him to move faster on complicated runs. "Alfred... it's beautiful..."

The American grinned as he pulled a small reed out of a hidden compartment of the case. "Not nearly as beautiful as you, babe."

"Again with the ridiculous nicknames?" Arthur said weakly, reaching out a trembling hand for the reed.

Alfred winked and placed the reed in his mouth, wetting it with his tongue. A thin trail of saliva escaped the American's mouth as he pulled it out, offering it to the oboist. "You know you like it, Iggybrows."

Arthur's face grew hot. "I-I... idiot! How am I to play with that reed now if you've already slobbered all over it?"

Alfred raised an eyebrow, blue eyes twinkling. "Got something against swapping spit with me, Artie?"

"What? I-... n-no! It's not that, it's-" he was immediately silenced by the American's lips upon his own.

His lips were soft, slightly chapped, but gentle. A jolt of electricity seemed to pass between them, punctuated by Arthur's hammering heart. His breath caught in his throat as Alfred pressed the shorter man's body closer to his own, his touch full of longing and promise.

Alfred's tongue passed over Arthur's lips and, without thinking, Arthur opened his mouth to allow the American to explore the inside of his mouth. Blue eyes closed in bliss as green ones widened in surprise. Time slowed to a standstill as every muscle in Arthur's body froze, his mind racing so fast that all his thoughts were in a blur.

Then, he kissed back, and time began to flow again. Warmth spread all over him as he wrapped his arms, oboe and all, around Alfred, hungrily pressing their lips together even harder. His tongue now lashed back like a whip, desperately battling Alfred's for dominance. The oboe case clattered to the floor as Alfred delightedly lifted the Brit off his feet and spun him around, the music around them swelling to a magnificent crescendo.

All too soon, they broke apart for air, flushed and panting. Arthur couldn't help but notice the rosy color of Alfred's cheeks, a look that suited the American so well that Arthur knew that he just _had_ to make Alfred flushed like that again. Before he could stop himself, he began laughing, the kind of laughter that he had not laughed in years.

Alfred's grin widened when Arthur stopped. Without a word, the American held up the reed and allowed it to hover near Arthur's mouth. His heart still hammering, Arthur opened his mouth and took the reed, biting it and licking it to a suitable shape.

Soon enough, trumpet and oboe joined the chorus of instruments already assembled. Music weaved all around the hall and deep into the night, proclaiming each musician's love for their world, for each other, and of course, for their music. Brass sang with woodwinds, woodwinds danced with percussion, and percussion beat a rhythm that would echo through time.

Above all these sounds, however, was a high and reedy voice; an oboe playing a ballad. Never before had anyone in the room heard a sound so beautiful, so passionate, so full of promise. As Arthur's fingers weaved over each key, hitting every note just right and flowing gently on to the next, he could not help but smile as he played.

He was truly part of the band.


End file.
